I’m Being Stalked By The Bretheren of Banderas and Rodriguez

I’m being stalked.

It happens on the subways. Almost every time I step on the “Q” in Brooklyn, after a stop or two of peace and quiet…

They are there. Walking on to the train, and now that they’ve locked the doors between subway cars, I am trapped.

No. There is no escape.

Three of them. They always travel in packs.

Their instruments of torture strapped to them. Some times bedecked in unique clothing, at others looking normal, until you see the large, leather straps across their body.

Subway Mariachis have found me again.

They’ve started moving deeper into Manhattan as of late. Traditionally in Manhattan, it’s all panhandlers with an agenda- (usually that everyone in the car will someday be in their situation, so pay to keep karma from being a bitch) or the occasional breakdancer/s. (When a crew of 4 to 5 young man try to start the big mass clapping while the train is vaulting down the tunnel at obscene speeds, contributions are really less for the dancers and more for medical bills- theirs’ and of any spectators’ hit in the face by a white Nike at the end of a breakdancer’s red nylon panted leg.)

I’m at least tolerant of busking taking place off the subway cars. You can move away from a busker while at a station, but when trapped on subway car, interaction with a passing mariachi/crazy preacher/close-quarters break dancer is sure to lead to tragedy, tears, and contusions.

Don’t they get that I’m trying to catch up on the Lword, for crying out loud?

Where is Johnny Depp, Willem Dafoe in a bad-make up job, or  Joaquim de Almeida when you need them?

The Most Insensitive License Plate I’ve Ever Seen

    It was an amazingly springlike day in New York City. While I ran along Brooklyn Q line stops, since yet again the MTA does it’s repairs in Brooklyn when it can screw up my day, while I meandered the streets of Manhattan, where everybody was both happy with the weather and bummed because the finally got just the right tights to cover up their holiday excesses, I saw people happy and amazed to be in out in sunny, balmy day that in my lifetime you didn’t see until March or April at the earliest.

But the lovely weather and encroaching heat death of life as we know isn’t the point of this post.

Know, about 2PM on the upper east sides, I saw a black Mercedes, rear windows blacked out. the driver looking like the Transporter with hair and a good dosage of anti-depressant.  This was clearly the the vehicle of someone important.

Some one of status.

Then I saw the license plate.

“CAPORN69”

Wow. How rude. How dare they.

They can have all their pride in the California industry they want, but show some respect. Don’t they know there is a diverse, gritty New York industry? One that allows people to be people, not surgically perfect Fembots and ultra tanned men of athletic perfection. One that features not just the people people want to watch doing sick things, but people who really do sick things doing sick things.

And how dare they disrespect that.

Where are East Coast pornographers ready to defend the New York’s integrity and turf? Not there when they need to be. Not there today at 2PM on the upper East side.

What? Do I watch porn? Of course not. Never. What is this thing you call ‘porn’?

I’m talking about civic pride here, you sick, sick people.